


Sparks Fly

by nacho_bucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Firefighter AU, Romance, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nacho_bucky/pseuds/nacho_bucky
Summary: Workaholic Sam Wilson is devoted to his career, and doesn’t have any time for romance – or so he thinks. Sparks start flying, however, when he meets you. Can the two of you figure out how to take a break before the fire burns out? Modern AU. Sam x Firefighter!Reader.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Sam Wilson (Marvel)/Reader, Scott Lang/Hope Van Dyne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. One

Splashes of burnished oranges, yellows, and reds rushed by outside the car windows, but Sam’s mind was on a plain cinder-blocked classroom, miles ahead and a day away. He took a sip of coffee -- now cold -- and tried to focus on the book in his lap. Required reading, board-issued, and woefully out of date. With a sigh of frustration, he jammed the coffee cup back into the holder, and tossed the book carelessly into the backseat. Let it get dented, or lost among the piles of dirty laundry and Bucky’s tackle box. Technically, he was supposed to pass it on to Isabel next, but he could give a damn at this point. She’d probably learn more from a frontier primer, stuffed into the back of a covered wagon. 

“See?” Grinning, Bucky tapped the side of his nose before returning both hands to the steering wheel. “Shoulda stuck to _Harry Potter_ , man.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, stretching out his arms to graze the dashboard as though all the tension and disillusionment with his employers could be released that way. “It’s this new math curriculum, man,” he explained. “They’re moving away from a hands-on model for _eight year olds_. I don’t get it. Some new research coming out, apparently, but this book is old. Like, same age as you.” 

“Excuse me?” Sam didn’t even have to glance over to know that Bucky had raised an eyebrow. “I’m six months younger than you, pal.” 

“Yeah, you really looked like a spry young man rubbing in that A535 this morning, you --”

“See, this is why we need more boundaries in our relationship.” Without looking, Bucky reached down to grab at Sam’s unfinished coffee, tipping the cup to his mouth without hesitation. “Mmm, I should start trying it with cinnamon, too,” he said. “Maybe we should swing by that bakery, you know the one? With the lady that looks like your mom? And those cinnamon doughnuts?”

Sam shook his head, gesturing towards the clock on the console. “I need to get back by four,” he said shortly, digging for his phone. Scanning through a hefty list of emails had his shoulders tensing in the way that made Bucky nervous, every time. Sunday night stress setting in, even after a weekend at the Barnes family cottage: nothing but fishing, a hike, and a bonfire last night -- complete with Becca’s s’mores buffet. 

Truly relaxing weekends came far and few between in the busy rush of city life, but Bucky liked to take a step back into it now and then. Dragging Sam up there with him wasn’t always easy, and rarely worth it on the drive home, but during? Listening to that stressed-out sucker snoring on the bottom bunk, exhausted by fresh air and following George Barnes on one of his singing woodland hikes -- Bucky always managed to fall asleep with a fond smile on his face. 

Now, though -- he shot a glance over at his best friend of ten years, his roommate of four. Sam’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he glared down at his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. Bucky sighed; another week ahead of them. Sam’s industriousness and newfound obsession with productivity had thrown a wrench into some of Bucky’s own routines, including his penchant for collapsing on the couch after a long day at work and simply losing himself in a couple of true crime documentaries. No, now he had to sit next to a guy who not only squeezed in a run _and_ yoga nearly every single day, but also spent six hours enlightening the young minds of Brooklyn. 

And who struggled to relinquish that role for even a _few_ hours during the occasional weekend break. 

A sudden _beep_ from Bucky’s phone distracted them both; hands still on the wheel and eyes on the road, Bucky gestured towards it in the empty cupholder by his side. “Can you check that? If it’s Tony cancelling his session again, I’m going to have to have a talk with him, that’ll be four in a row.” 

Huffing, Sam reached, thumbing in the passcode -- how close was too close, Bucky wondered dimly -- and scrolling through new messages. “It’s from your girl,” he said with a slow, brimming smile. “She’s asking when you’ll be back.” 

Quiet. 

Not an unusual reaction, Sam thought; Bucky was often struck into silence by the mere mention of his girl, who, as he maintained -- “She’s not my girl. Tell her we’ll be there by four.” 

The car filled with an uneasy, pregnant silence in the wake of Sam firing off the text; Bucky’s hands flexed on the steering wheel as he navigated the busy Jersey traffic, yelling a few times and extending his middle finger to more than a few drivers who swerved too close to his precious Impala.

Was it something he should ask about, Sam wondered? The little tic in Bucky’s jaw as he resolutely kept his mouth shut about _her_ , refusing to talk about her or her life in anything but a strictly professional manner? Sure, they were colleagues; old friends. Sure, he knew her coffee order, her birthday, and bought her sweet gifts. Sure, she needled him about dates and hook-ups, his lack of finesse when it came to laundry, and his overindulgence in workout clothes. 

Sam opened his mouth, ready to ask, ready to tease and probe and echo all the interest that Bucky’s mom had dutifully swallowed all weekend long -- but then another email chimed in on his phone, this one from a parent. A single mom who had her hands full with twin girls, worried about an upcoming assessment. With a sigh, Sam slid open the app, and began typing out a lengthy, warm note of genuine reassurance. 

Whoever said a teacher worked just five days a week had been lying through their damn teeth. 

* * *

Rain sluiced down the apartment windows as Sam returned from the laundry room; Bucky had already left for the gym, a hurricane in his wake. A duffel bag stuffed with clothes still needing to be washed sat fat and useless in the middle of the living room; the kitchen counters were strewn with the remnants of his pre-workout drink preparation, and he’d forgotten to close the fridge door. 

_Be back at 8_ , his message had said. 

Heaving a sigh, Sam set to work tidying up the communal spaces. Wiping down the kitchen counters and reorganizing the condiments shelf within the fridge; jotting down a few notes on his phone in preparation for the weekly grocery shopping trip. Nearly out of eggs, but that wasn’t a surprise; Bucky was an addict. 

An hour later, he’d managed a deep clean of the living room, squeezed in a shower, and even stripped Bucky’s bedding to be taken down to the laundry room on his next trip. Stuffing it all into the hamper in the hallway, Sam registered the lightest _tinkle_ , and reached down to pluck a glittery earring from the parquet floor. 

Was it from Melissa? Or Anne? Maybe it was from Lyddie, the high-spirited waitress striving to make it in stand-up. Bucky had dragged Sam out to see one of her sets three weeks ago, in a seedy little bar on the edge of Soho; she had been _good._ Damn good, and Sam had actually enjoyed the evening off, especially when her jokes began to reference the long-haired personal trainer she’d been hooking up with. 

Sam had laughed until he’d nearly choked on his beer as she described the “mystery guy’s” penchant for tracking the number of calories burned after sex. Even with Bucky sitting beet-red and chuckling awkwardly by his side the entire time, Sam had enjoyed himself. 

It was one of the last times -- this weekend aside -- that he’d actually managed to have some fun. The real world had a way of imprinting itself firmly upon his thoughts, awareness. Every practiced movement and choice, every minute of his every day, was scheduled to be _maximized_. As though Sam’s only real value came from how thinly he could spread himself for the rest of the world.

Like now -- he prodded the laundry hamper down the length of the hallway and out into the living room; turned on the dishwasher; and then headed back into his own bedroom to fire up his ancient desktop computer. It took her a little while, grand old lady that she was, to come to life, and he couldn’t be bothered to just sit there idly, so he pulled out a dust cloth and began polishing the screen and keyboard as he waited. 

Emails and lesson plans shuffled to the fore as Sam swiped through his files and folders. As usual, everything was ready to go for tomorrow -- a day of catching up on reading assessments; some autumn art in the afternoon; and -- oh, _shit_. 

A headache tapped away at his temples as he read the newest email, realizing abruptly that all his plans had just gone to absolute hell.

* * *

“I don’t know how you drink this stuff.” Scott winced, watching you stir in a spoonful of cinnamon, tapping it away at the edge of the chipped mug, before licking the spoon and flashing him a coy smile. “Heinous.” 

“The coffee? Cinnamon? Me?” you joked, sliding down against the leather couch; the end of your shift sometimes brought a little disorientation, and as much as you were looking forward to heading home, grabbing a nap, and then enjoying four days off -- well, a little downtime with your colleagues never went amiss. 

Scott shook his head, reaching into the fridge for a soda before joining you on the couch. “Never mind,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be heading home?” 

_Home_. A bit lonely, honestly. The prospect of sitting there in the apartment you’d yet to quite fully move into, just didn’t hold the same appeal as a concept, as perhaps it did for Scott. He had a girlfriend -- Hope -- and a daughter -- Cassie -- to go home to. Someone to spend his four days with. As welcome as a break always was, there came the first realization that you didn’t truly have the first clue how to spend your time away from the station. Away from purpose. 

“You’re feeling okay?” Scott asked, green eyes softening as he rested a hand on your shoulder. “Tired?” 

God, there was a word. A perfect word. _Tired_ was more like a permanent state of being; woven deeply into your bones. Even after years of this career, rest didn’t come any easier. “A little,” you admitted, swallowing a yawn. The coffee warmed your belly; the scent of cinnamon was stronger than the smoke you’d yet to wash from your skin and hair. “Gonna go home and just sleep for a day or two, I think.” 

Scott’s responding grimace was familiar enough to have you groaning, sinking back into the couch cushions. “Ugh, what is it?” 

“I was supposed to tell you earlier,” he said apologetically, “the captain wanted me to say. Well, I mean, he was going to tell you, but then I said I would tell you, and just..” 

“Come on, Lang.” 

“Clint had to back out of the presentation tomorrow. He’s got chickens. I mean, chicken pox. I mean, his kid has chicken pox.” His smile was warm, but spineless. Glancing down at his bare wrist, Scott downed the last of his soda and stood. “Look at that time, gotta go. I love you, you’re fantastic, and we’re due there at ten.” 

“Wait, you-you can’t just --” 

He ignored your sputtering protests, landing only an affectionate peck to your forehead, before hurrying towards the door. “Check your email!” he added, before you could find the perfect projectile to launch at him. Your mug was still full of coffee; and the pillows next to you on the couch were far too threadbare to do any real damage.

A sigh, heaved up from somewhere quiet and mournful; but you did as he said anyways. Mustering whatever reserve of goodwill you possessed after such a long shift, you scrolled through the email from Cap. Yeah, there it was. Ten a.m. Typed out in Steve’s characteristic terse style, along with a rather impersonal note of gratitude for you stepping up that somehow belied both three years of friendship, and the fact that _you hadn’t volunteered for this at all_. 

Four linked pages; something about room 204. At least, you thought sleepily, now wishing you’d skipped the coffee and stolen Nat’s hot chocolate instead -- at least Clint had already planned the presentation in full. 

And hopefully this teacher -- Sam Wilson -- was prepared for the last minute change to her class presentation schedule, in preparation for fire safety week. 

_Anytime, boss_ , you replied, thinking now only of your bed, not of the weight of all the equipment you’d need to bring tomorrow, hauling on the subway and maybe even a damn bus. Not of thirty-odd kids, clamouring with questions, digging for the stickers in your pockets, and not of having to stretch out that small reserve of flagging energy you’d hoped to put to better, albeit selfish, use over the next few days. _Damn it._

Several streets away, Sam replied to the same email chain, assuring Captain Steve Rogers -- whoever the hell that was -- that he was so looking forward to the presentation, and was grateful that Mrs Livingston’s class had had to reschedule. 

Quite belying, of course, the fact that the promised change in his daily plan had a migraine poking rudely at his temples. 

_Damn it_ , he thought with a deep sigh, flipping open his day planner to begin editing the next day’s page -- just _damn it_. 


	2. Two

“ _Portami...portami in bagno_ ,” Sam said confidently, lifting his thumb from the record button on the screen and risking a sip of coffee. “Oh, wait, no, it’s _spiaggia_ \-- oh, crap.” 

A smear of pale brown against the wrist of his crisp lilac button-down had him cursing in English _and_ stammered Italian; this wasn’t on this morning’s schedule. Jog, shower, post-workout shake; brewing up a cup of green tea in his travel mug. Not spilling this sneaky small serving of caffeine all over his new shirt. “ _Shit_.” 

“Now, that’s not a teacher word, Samuel.” Hair mussed from bed, shirtless, and still bearing scratch marks across his chest, courtesy of last Thursday’s hook-up -- Jodie, if Sam remembered correctly -- Bucky leaned against the kitchen doorway with the contentedly-rumpled expression of someone who didn’t have to go into work until after lunch. “How could we explain our frustration more kindly?” 

Sam rolled his eyes, reaching for a cloth and fairly tossing his phone aside. So much for his morning Italian power-up. “ _Vaffanculo_ ,” he muttered under his breath, dabbing at the stain. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Nah.” He ran a hand through lengthening hair and pulled open the fridge door. “Promised I’d show up at the gym a little early today. We’re looking into possibly starting a childcare program to make it easier for parents to squeeze in workouts. Got a meeting with the program manager and an outside consultant.” 

“Oh.” It was a solid plan, though it seemed to come out of nowhere. “Sounds good.” 

“Yeah, she’s excited.” 

_She_ . Sam pressed his smile into his mug and turned to the dish rack, hoping Bucky hadn’t caught it. Her name didn’t come up often between them, but she was everywhere. Careful fingerprints all over their lives; permanently added to Bucky’s contacts as “ _Gorgeous_.” One of his oldest friends and yet, and yet, it had been Jodie in his bed last; months ago, Evelyn. Before Evelyn had come Jane (one of Sam’s favourites; a pastry chef who had spoiled them both rotten for the three weeks she and Bucky had been seeing each other); and then a litany of other friendly, smiling names and faces that now slipped through his fingers. 

And Bucky’s, too. 

But Gorgeous always remained somehow different. Special. And Sam was getting impatient. 

A beep from his watch reminded Sam that he was now officially running five minutes behind on his morning schedule; if he didn’t get to school by 7:35, he wouldn’t have time to set up that morning’s game, and he needed to hit up the photocopier before Mrs Livingstone got there, to prepare for this afternoon’s fire safety presentation. 

He heaved a sigh and finally settled for stripping out of the button-down, ignoring Bucky’s wolf-whistle, rushing back into his bedroom hoping that his preferred yellow shirt was pressed enough to suffice, and that his morning wouldn’t be _entirely_ off-track because of that damn mishap. 

_Vaffanculo,_ indeed. 

* * *

The duct-taped patches on the rickety office chair seemed to actually bite through the fabric of the dress pants you’d retrieved from under your bed, and you shifted self-consciously at the curious stare of a boy of perhaps seven or eight. “Are you a mom?” he asked bluntly, not even glancing at the administrative assistant before sliding his note across the desk. She stamped it with an apologetic smile at you. 

“No,” you said, trying to soften your expression. Kids were cute and all, but exhaustion had crept into your bones sometime around eight a.m. and showed little sign of leaving anytime soon. “I’m a guest.” 

“Charlie, take this to Miss Rhodes, please and thank you.” The assistant tapped him on the shoulder with a red-tipped nail, drawing his attention back. “And, actually” -- this to you, with a wider smile -- “Maria is ready to see you now.” 

The boy’s hard stare followed you as you stood, leaving the hefty, stained duffel bag half-shoved under the other chair. Curious, most likely, but it itched at the back of your neck all the time. _Damn it, Scott_ , you thought mutinously, before stepping inside the sunny, coffee-scented office behind the ladybug-patterned nameplate -- _Ms. Maria Hill_. 

She looked every inch what you imagined a school principal might look like: standing in a swift, measured rush and tucking her dark hair neatly behind her ears to extend a warm handshake. “Hey, there, welcome,” she said kindly, gesturing to the much softer chair opposite her desk for you to sit down. She moved a hefty stack of manila folders out of the way and tapped something out on her keyboard before minimizing the screen and turning back to you. 

“I really appreciate you coming in on such short notice,” Maria beamed. “We’ve worked with Clint for a couple of years now, but I’ve got to admit, I was thrilled when he said _you’d_ be filling in for him.” 

You blinked. “Me?” 

“Mmhmm. We encourage diverse gender representation at our school when it comes to career days and presentations like this,” she explained. Over her shoulder, framing the window -- which looked out onto the busy Brooklyn street below -- dozens of colourful pictures decorated the walls. As she explained the school’s policy on welcoming guest speakers, you grew distracted by the near-oppressive coziness of the space. Soft toys marched along the windowsill; more pictures from students papered the wall beside her desk; a bookshelf spilling manuals, binders, and a rainbow of picture books. 

It felt...safe. 

“Now, the first class you’ll be seeing is a third grade group, and -- oh, one sec” -- Maria rolled her chair back to her computer, absentmindedly reaching for a chipped mug of coffee as she keyed in a few words -- “okay, yeah, they’re in PE right now, so why don’t I just send a quick text to their teacher to come get you before the kids, does that sound okay? They’ll be back at 10:15.” 

“Um, yeah, sure.”

You hadn’t thought it possible, but Maria’s smile widened. “I really appreciate you being here,” she continued, reaching for her phone and firing off the message with scarcely a glance down at the screen. “We’re in a lower income area, and we sometimes struggle to compete for funding and attention. Programs like Clint’s mean a lot to us, truly.” 

A smile of your own inched its way out; sure, a cup of coffee and an afternoon nap were probably now on your schedule, but Maria seemed so _genuine_ , and from the look of the peeling paint on the cinder-block walls in the hallway; the damaged chairs; and the dated technology, she wasn’t overstating their lack of funding. You could spend a morning with these kids, you reasoned, even if it meant giving up some quality rest time. 

“I brought stickers,” you blurted, self-consciousness prickling hot and insistent. You had to say _something_. 

Maria folded her hands, leaned across the desk, broad smile still firmly in place. “They’re going to _love_ them, thank you.” 

That self-consciousness returned; simmering now to butterflies in your stomach, as you mechanically followed Maria’s movements. Pushing in the soft chair, trailing her back out to the main office. Charlie had left, but the administrative assistant was busy with two new customers -- a tall man, curved over her desk signing something on a clipboard, wearing a yellow shirt that almost perfectly matched the paper sunflowers dotting the wall behind him; and a woman about your age, a streak of glitter glue stuck to the sleeve of her blazer, juggling a thick stack of papers and a box of crayons. 

“Hi,” you said, nerves pushing you towards her. “You must be Mrs..Ms Wilson. I’m here for the presentation.” 

The woman blinked, pushing a few strands of red hair from her eyes -- staring hard as though trying to place you. “Oh, God” -- her voice was hoarse, a little rough -- “becoming Mrs Wilson is _actually_ my nightmare,” she laughed good-naturedly; Maria joined in, squeezing your elbow to direct you to the man now standing in front of you, a tight, polite smile on his face.

He whisked off a pair of thick-framed glasses before shaking your hand. “Sam Wilson,” he said crisply. 

_Damn it_. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammered. “I just assumed…” 

Assumed that he was supposed to have been a woman. That naturally, anyone in charge of teaching a roomful of eight-year-olds must be a woman. 

How many times had it happened to you in your own field? Showing up for training seminars, for committee meetings, everyone shocked to see a woman as a seasoned firefighter and first responder? 

Embarrassment flooded back in full, unrepentant force even as Maria gamely tried to salvage the moment, pointing to your bag and explaining to Sam Wilson -- now studying you with an almost...apprehensive expression. 

“Um, I’m in room 204,” he said suddenly, turning on his heel. “Just down there to the right, can’t miss it.” 

And with that, he left, leaving only the shape of mortification and self-doubt in his wake. 

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Sam tried to plaster a warm smile on his face as he headed down to the gymnasium to pick up his class. It wasn’t a big deal, and it had certainly happened before -- working in a predominantly-female field with a gender neutral name was a recipe for that kind of mistake -- but what particularly rankled him in _this_ moment was his own curdling surprise at seeing a woman showing up for the firefighter presentation. 

Sam liked to think of himself as an open-minded person, accepting and enlightened. And yet, when he’d pictured this presenter -- someone who, apparently, had worked their entire career so far as a firefighter and first responder -- he’d automatically been expecting a man. In fact, during the morning meeting, when little Naomi had raised her hand to ask why “special guest” was listed on the visual schedule, Sam had patiently explained that _he_ would be arriving just before snacktime. 

_He_. 

Of course you hadn’t clocked it, he assured himself, rounding the corner to the gym. There was no reason for him to feel the need to apologize, to explain. Sam pushed away the memory of your pretty eyes darting around in confusion, and focused instead on the single-file, silent line of his twenty-eight students, all waiting with bright smiles and bouncing on the balls of their feet with eagerness to get back to the classroom. 

“Is our special guest here?” Naomi asked, shoving her glasses further up her nose. Fake, actually; she’d begged her parents for a pair after realizing that Sam wore them. She reached for his hand and walked alongside him as they made their way back to room 204. 

“Sure is,” he said, grinning down at her. “You excited?” 

Of course she was; they all were. Special guest speakers were far and few between, and when Sam had revealed that a _firefighter_ was coming to see them -- even then, he’d been careful to keep his terminology as neutral as possible, for God’s sake -- Elliott, who had come from a school in Minnesota, announced that in second grade, a firefighter had given them all colouring books and stickers after a visit. 

It had taken Sam a whole eight minutes to quell the screaming. 

By the time he’d led the students back into the classroom, you had already arranged a small, bright display on the whiteboard. A few fire safety posters and a diagram, pinned neatly under his colourful frieze of letters. You turned and straightened at the awed sounds of the kids as they poured in from the hallway, not even bothering to go back to their desks before -- 

“Scooby-Dooby Doo!” Sam bellowed. 

Every kid froze, some in elaborate positions. You flashed him a nervous smile before he let his expression relax. “Where are you?” the class answered in unison. 

Your smile eased. 

And that made him feel something. Something warm, something sweet, something utterly distracting as he tried to bring some semblance of order to the proceedings, asking students to please go back to their desks, haul out their chairs as quietly as possible, and form a semi-circle. 

Over the kids’ heads and the noise of scraping chairs, Sam couldn’t help but notice a nervous twisting of your fingers; tongue darting out compulsively to lick at your lips. His stomach plummeted -- were you still feeling guilty over his reaction in the office? He should’ve laughed, damn it, _he should have laughed_. Bucky would’ve. Bucky would’ve somehow channelled Nat’s response into some mildly flirtatious line; coaxed out a sparkle in your eyes and a genuine smile to your pretty mouth. He --

No. Nope. Not going down _that_ road. 

Two years of being single seemed to sit quite heavily on Sam’s shoulders as he directed the kids to show off their super listening skills, to be the best audience ever for you. Once he was assured they were as settled as they were going to get while positively vibrating with excitement, he stepped up to stand beside you in front of the board, the closest he’d been to you since the office. 

You smelled _so good_. 

_Focus, Wilson_. 

“Alright, superstars, we have a very special guest here with us today, this is” -- he froze, realizing he hadn’t asked your name. You filled in quickly for him, smiling at the kids. “Okay, awesome,” he continued. “Now, we’ve got a pretty good reputation of being the best listeners in the whole wide city, don’t we?” 

“Yes!” the class boomed. 

“Good job. Now, I’m going to hand this over to our very special guest, and remember, kids, use the magic hand signal for when you want to ask a question, that sound good?” 

Another resounding peal of agreement, and Sam glanced over at you to make sure you were ready to go. “Magic hand signal?” you repeated, voice low. 

Sam grinned as he admitted, “Literally just raising their hands. Gotta make the management special somehow, right? You good to go?” 

A nod, and he stepped away. Wishing, briefly, that he didn’t have to. 

* * *

Sam Wilson had a charming gap between his front teeth, and he smelled like Irish Spring. Those two observations alone were enough to steal the breath from your lungs, momentarily; you tried hard to collect yourself enough to begin launching into the well-rehearsed school presentation. 

Most of it was pretty cut and dry: basic elements of fire safety, age-appropriate lines about making a plan with their families, having a meeting place, sleeping with doors closed if possible. A little girl with a neat French braid and beautiful dark eyes raised her hand to gravely volunteer the suggestion that having a door closed at night could also protect them from monsters. 

“Oh,” you said, uncertain of how to respond. 

“That’s a great suggestion, Lindsey,” Sam said warmly from the back of the room, where he’d been leaning against his own desk, arms crossed (muscles straining at the sleeves of that damn shirt) in front of his chest. “But remember, we read that book that reminded us monsters aren’t real?” 

Lindsey nodded, a relieved smile melting on her face. “I forgot,” she said, blinking up at you. 

“No problem, honey,” you replied, the endearment slipping out easily. 

From that point, the rest of the presentation went smoothly. You explained the diagrams -- stop, drop, and roll -- featured in the posters you’d brought for them to keep, and then, after a boy who excitedly told you his name was Matthew raised his hand, you finally pulled out the hefty duffel bag containing your active duty uniform. 

“Now,” you explained, tugging out the boots and pants first, setting them down on the floor in the usual arrangement you’d have at the station, “when I’m on duty, but just hanging around the fire station, I don’t have to wear this. We all wear a grey or blue t-shirt -- just like yours!” -- you pointed to Matthew, who _beamed_ \-- “and a pair of dark pants. When we get a call out, though, we have to put on this. It’s called _personal protective equipment_ , or PPE for short.” 

And that was the wrong thing to say in a roomful of eight year olds. 

Giggles _exploded_ : Matthew couldn’t handle it at all, and fell out of his chair while rolling around the floor; even shy Lindsey had to cover her mouth with both hands to stifle her laughter. Your mouth went dry as you realized the fulsome _chaos_ of a classroom unhinged, and desperately, you shot a look at Sam, whose expression had changed -- flattening, settling into disappointment. 

“Scooby-Dooby Doo!” he called out, much more sharply than before. 

The kids kept laughing. 

You could happily have shrivelled up. 

He repeated the call and response pattern three more times before the students finally replied, and hurried back into their seats, chastened. A few bubbling titters followed, but the kids looked mostly penitent, blinking up at their teacher as he pushed himself off his desk and made his way to the front of the room. 

You wanted to apologize, yourself. For lack of foresight, finesse, preparation, and for the funny trembling in your stomach as Sam stepped closer. Had he always smelled of sharp citrus, or was that a recent development? 

“Alright, kiddos, that wasn’t very respectful, was it? I know it sounds like a funny word, but it’s an important one,” he said calmly, his voice smoothing down into something remarkably like velvet. “Now, we’re going to give a big sorry to our guest, and then _show_ we’re sorry by giving her our best listening. It’s okay that we laughed, guys, but we need to remember to be a respectful audience, and I know you can do that, right?” 

A chorus of _Sorrys_ had your heart clenching, but Sam just smiled. “We’re all good,” he said quietly, just for you. “Teachable moment. Do you want to keep going or should we call it a day?” 

His eyes were kind, and focused entirely on you. How was it that the soft brush of his gaze had you thinking about sunsets, about autumn days? A cool breeze against your skin; and yet there was warmth there, too. Sam’s smile faltered briefly, as though worried he’d said the wrong thing, but widened, broadened, _embraced_ you as one curved shyly against your lips in return. 

“Sounds good to me, Mr Wilson,” you said softly. 

A flicker of interest -- but that dulled quickly. As though Sam had snuffed it out, a single, trembling candle flame. “Great,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Thanks so much.” 

_Oh_. 

Swallowing the disappointment, you turned back to your uniform, to the presentation. With practiced ease, you demonstrated to the students how you stepped into your boots, pulling up the thick pants already tucked into them. Then came suspenders, belt, and coat. By the time you were reaching for your helmet, the class was cheering, hands popping up enthusiastically with questions. 

But to your immense, searing, _sour_ dismay, Mr Wilson was sitting on the other side of his desk, tapping away at his laptop, not giving you a second glance. 


	3. Three

Sleep didn’t come easy that month. When it did come, it stank of bitter coffee and stale sheets; mountains of laundry piled around your bedroom floor. Most days, you stumbled home from lengthy shifts to simply collapse on the couch, scraping by on shallow catnaps; startling awake to the glow of the television, Netflix plaintively curious as to whether you were still watching. 

Were you? Had you been? 

Life was easier on autopilot, you thought. Easier to pour mental energy into something that actually mattered. Because when it came down to it, takeout boxes and unreturned library books, they didn’t seem to matter so much as the memories threaded through the migraines. 

Scott called it _human time_. Something from an online counselling course he’d taken months ago, when trying to impress Hope in the early days of their relationship. _Human time_ ran deeper than simple “me time;” it was a more spiritual form of self-care, he reasoned. 

But after. 

_After_. 

Gingerly, you pressed at your temples; the headache tapping there seemed to be sharper than normal. No human time, that’s what Scott would say. No Netflix and chill; no laundry; no morning runs, weekly yoga sessions; no scented candles or mopped floors. 

No free time.

But it was there. The memory of it. Vivid and trembling, all the surface tension building and building a delicate skin of resolve, fragile underneath. 

Ash in your mouth, but how could that be? When the layers of safety equipment were carefully designed to prevent that very thing. Still, you woke with it, heavy and thick and --

A _beep_ from your phone broke the uneasy contemplation, but not the tension. _That_ lingered, curling somewhere in your stomach, always biding its time. 

_Hey_. 

In true Scott fashion, the message was brief, to the point. 

_Meet at Leo’s?_

The urge to decline had your thumbs flying over the screen, a lengthy, apologetic non-apology taking shape -- but then you pictured his face. His eager smile. “How’d the presentation go?” Scott had asked, waiting for you in the parking lot with a cup of coffee and four powdered doughnuts. 

You’d smiled out a lie and swallowed the truth with the coffee, tasting neither. But it had sat there, curdling, boiling over into anxiety one evening. Anxiety that had sent you dialling an old number, reaching for something tangible, something strong and warm and remembered. 

She hadn’t picked up. 

Maybe it wasn’t her number anymore. 

_HEY!?!Mq!_

Another message from Scott popped up, this one far more insistent; maybe he’d already had a few drinks. 

Your smile was wobbly, weak, and unfamiliar as you typed out a response, already thinking about the sheer labour of a shower, a meal. 

_Human time_. 

* * *

Giggles erupted from under the blue velvet blanket draped over the couch, and Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes for the eighth time in an hour. Sandra was nice, friendly -- all smiles and full of funny anecdotes from her job as a security guard at a bank, but there was something about the pitch of her laughter right now, something about the glazed-over look in Bucky’s eyes as he sat there, ostensibly comfortable and enjoying a quiet date night…

Something about all of it just wasn’t sitting right. 

He tried to conceal the irritation in his sigh as he mumbled something about grading, and headed into his bedroom. Sandra barely seemed to notice, preoccupied now with pointing out a familiar actor on screen. 

In the quiet of his room -- neat as a pin, almost spartan bedding, furniture; even his books were colour-coded -- Sam took a deep, drinking breath, and tried to calm down. Anxiety had been lingering lately at the fringes of nearly every moment, every action, and every choice. Even this morning, standing in line at one of the big chain coffee shops, he’d found himself preoccupied with the idea of supporting small businesses, and abruptly plagued by a wash of guilt that he _wasn’t_ doing his part. When the cheerful barista finally asked him for his order, Sam had choked, ordering a bottle of water and fleeing after leaving a hefty tip. 

Bucky, predictably, had not been kind about it. Tough love was the name of his game, and he just couldn’t understand _why_ Sam had wrapped himself up so tightly in his career. “You’re like a mummy, dude,” he’d said, drunk one night after a meeting with his girl had gone late. A strictly professional, platonic meeting; followed by an hour of Tinder scrolling, nursing a beer. 

“A mummy?” Sam had blinked, knife paused in midair as he chopped up carrots for his lunch the next day. 

“Wrapped up and locked away in this job, man,” he hiccuped. “Everything is about work, about being the best teacher. The best person. There’s no room for mistakes.” 

The memory stroked back, unfurled under his skin with prickling barbs. Bucky hadn’t been the first to point that out; his mother had, too, a long time ago, when he was cramming in college and packing his calendar with as many extracurriculars as he could. Sam had always been an overachiever, something his father had been proud of; but the simple fact was, he could no longer unravel the thickly-tangled knot of who he was, and who he _was_. 

Stupid. 

Groaning, he collapsed back onto his bed, rumpling the duvet and breathing deep the scent of mountain fresh dryer sheets. Even this room wasn’t a reprieve, he thought wearily -- the bookcase stacked with educational manuals and picture books; his lesson planning binder sitting plump and smug on the desk. A calendar hung on the wall above his desk, the first thing he saw most mornings, reminding him of report card deadlines, parent meetings, bill payments due, and the utter lack of a personal life in the days between. 

The utter lack of _him_. 

Did it matter, Sam wondered, starfishing out on the bed? Did it actually matter if he never dated, never went on vacation? If the only things he read were books to make him a better teacher, a better neighbour, a better son? Where had he stolen the idea that perfection was plausible, something to be desired? 

When had he let himself get like this? 

Studying Italian to fill in the last few vacant moments of his day; five minute tasks to keep him from slowing down at all. Jogging and running and a playlist full of yoga sessions. Cleaning and organizing and budgeting as though they were all Olympic sports. 

He was the first one to arrive at school, and the last one to leave. 

That visit to the Barnes’ cabin had left him ragged and worried for days afterwards, and that presentation --

“No,” he said firmly, to the quiet of his bedroom. The muffled sounds of the movie winding down out in the living room told him Sandra and Bucky were likely going to move things down the hall soon, and if he didn’t want to have to turn an Italian podcast up to full blast to block out her ensuing giggles, he’d better find something else to do. 

Problem was -- he didn’t have a clue. 

* * *

Your shoes stuck to the floor, letting loose the most unpleasant squelching sound as you walked over to the table where Scott, Hope, and Clint had gathered, waving you over with drinks already in hand. “I ordered you an appletini,” Clint said with a wink, patting the peeling leather beside him. “Leo’s trying something new.” 

“Leo’s always trying something new,” you grumbled, reaching for a battered drinks menu. Two months ago, this place had been a comedy club; a few months before that, a family-friendly diner, ‘40s style. 

Now? 

Now a wobbly strobe light swooped sporadically over the dance floor -- sticky with spilled drinks and possibly worse -- while a band played half-hearted prog rock covers on the low stage. Leo herself -- clad in bubblegum spandex tonight -- flitted from booth to booth, offering free drinks and trying to book more performers. “Hey, Sparky,” she said, grabbing at your arm with acid green talons and a snapping smile. “What do you think of the new look?” 

When you’d first met her, Leo had been boasting auburn victory rolls and an outfit she swore had come direct from Christina Aguilera’s _Candyman_ music video; transformation was the name of Leo’s game and there was something admirable in that, you thought, overcome by a rush of warm emotion as she steered you towards the bar. 

“Lookin’ good,” you smiled, tugging her into a hug that was far too affectionate for the sober version of you. Something she immediately picked up on. 

“Sparky?” she asked, pinching your chin carefully between two fingers. Her eyes narrowed as she examined you, that vaguely maternal glint simmering underneath approximately four pounds of neon eyeshadow. “Talk to me.”

There was nothing to say. 

Nothing you could put into words that she would understand, because this feeling? It floated. It changed. Some days you could get up and go, do your full shift with a smile on your face and enjoy coffee breaks with Scott. Other days, everything seemed so heavy. Too much to carry. 

“I’m good,” you said, willing a grin to crawl out, but it brushed too close to manic to reassure her. Leo contented herself with a gentle pat to your cheek, and slid the appletini across the bar, thanking Stella, the newest hire, in one swift movement. 

“When you’re ready to tell the truth,” Leo murmured, leaning closer in a cloud of French perfume, “you know where to find me.” 

She melted into the throbbing, surging crowd; a beacon in pink, drifting away. 

Leaving you there with this ridiculous red drink you had _zero_ interest in trying. You held it gingerly, scanning the dancefloor to find an easy route to navigate your way back to the booth -- but two steps in, and you slammed into something warm, hard, and smelling strongly of Irish Spring. 

* * *

Sam blinked, scarcely registering the cool rush of liquid as it seeped into his shirt, so focused was he on the colour of your eyes, gleaming there under the manically-rotating lights of the...whatever this place was. 

You fumbled with an apology, unzipping your hoodie to swipe fruitlessly at the stain on his chest; he bit back pleasured, touch-starved shivers at the gesture. His brain short-circuited at the scent of you, at the gentle brush of your skin; the way your front teeth sank into your bottom lip. 

A month had passed since you’d stood at the front of his classroom, since he’d tried hard to avert his gaze from the quick, sure press of your legs; the breadth of your nervous smile. By the time you were deftly shimmying into the uniform, Sam had tried to engross himself in checking emails on his computer -- technically, the rudest he’d ever been to a class presenter, but his heart had been hammering so thoroughly in his chest, he’d been afraid to stand too close. 

He pushed his glasses further up his nose, abruptly awkward and unsure of where to put his hands. It seemed a little strange to be just standing there as you continued to dab at his shirt. “Hey, um, it’s okay,” he muttered, gently touching your wrist. “No big deal.” 

You were softer here. Not that you weren’t at the school, dressed in that crisp blouse and then later, the thick and fascinating bulk of your uniform -- but here, in a hoodie, in jeans and sneakers and wearing now a tentative smile, Sam’s stomach flipped and interest kindled bright and ready. 

He wanted to get to know you. 

You were _new_. 

Bucky had told him to find new experiences, right? 

“Mr Wilson,” you said, taking a step back. “I’m really sorry. Can I...can I pay for that to be dry-cleaned? Or just a new one?” 

He grinned. “No worries, it’s my roommate’s. He’s got a bit of a hazard budget for his dating wardrobe.” 

A surprised laugh caught him off-guard. Had he heard it yet? He found he liked the way it settled on him, tactile as an embrace. Briefly, he wondered how your arms might feel. 

Fortunately, the drink hadn’t touched his leather jacket; Sam simply zipped it up over the stain once he was sure you’d soaked up most of the moisture, not missing the way your eyes traced his every movement. His curiosity piqued, but sputtered loose and low again as you glanced over your shoulder, zeroing in on a packed booth. A good-looking man with a megawatt smile waved you over. 

Sam missed you already. 

“Um, it was nice seeing you,” he said, pushing away the wistful air creeping into his voice. “You, uh...have a fun night.” 

Distracted, you turned back, hand brushing his sleeve. 

Sam bit his own lip. 

The smile you gave him now was _dazzling_. Eager and confident, perhaps, which surprised him. “Are you...are you here on your own?” you asked, hopeful. 

_Hopeful_. 

“Um, yeah.” 

“Oh.” 

No follow-up? Sam chewed on his lip, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d done this, and never on a dance floor with most of an appletini staining his shirt; never with a short, aggressively-blonde woman in hot pink spandex giving him the stink eye from over the bar. 

“D’you want to --” 

“Could I --” 

Spoken in the same breath; mirrored smiles. Sam nodded, chuckling, as he followed you over to the booth -- willing himself to keep his eyes up, and focused. 

* * *

“So, last time I was here, this was a comedy club.” 

Scott burst out into a peal of tipsy laughter, shoving his screwdriver off to the side at a concerned glance from Hope. “It _was_ ,” he snorted, glancing at you. “It was for about, what, a month and a half?” You nodded, sipping from your wine and trying to avoid staring at the way Sam’s leather jacket strained against the ample curve of his bicep. 

“And now it’s a” -- Sam looked over his shoulder; the band had inexplicably moved into a Leonard Cohen cover; couples were swaying sleepily out on the floor -- “a club?” 

“Sort of,” you offered. “See, Leo, the owner, she’s got a bit of a wild sense of creativity. She goes through phases, and her husband works on the city council, so he’s always getting her new licenses and that sort of thing. They’re pretty rich, too. That helps.” 

“Rumour has it he’s in the Mob,” Clint said, attempting to tap the side of nose in a conspiratorial gesture, but missing the mark entirely. One too many White Russians. Hope handed him a napkin, with a rather dismayed expression. 

You shook your head. “He’s got money, sure. But it’s from a line of children’s books he started publishing about forty years ago. Writes under a pen name and everything. That’s how he met Leo. She was a children’s librarian then. Or...maybe she worked at a circus. I can’t remember.” 

Sam tipped the bottle of beer up to his lips again, finding once more, that he just simply enjoyed listening to you speak. Something about the way your voice enveloped him, drew him in. You were far more at ease here among your friends and colleagues than you had been at the school. 

The way your hands moved to emphasize a point; the curve of your mouth; the shape you gave to witty anecdotes and a playful laugh as Clint -- covered in tattoos, but mercifully married -- explained to Sam that your station nickname was _Sparky_ : every point, every moment had Sam tipping over into... _something_. 

And you -- 

You sat there, talking with more enthusiasm than you’d displayed for weeks now, comfortable here in this nest of familiarity, courage lent from the wine, from the gap in Sam’s smile, from the rich warmth of his eyes. He leaned forward on the table, watching your _mouth_ , studying you with a delicate fascination that had heat spiralling in delicious eddies through your veins. 

To be watched; to be listened to: just to matter. 

A sensation and experience you held onto for another two hours, even after Clint had stumbled home, Laura waiting outside in the minivan with a sleeping newborn; Hope and Scott going home to relieve the babysitter. As they stepped back towards these different lives, you and Sam leaned into something new, something warm. 

Something wanted. 

That night, wine threading tender, smudged joy through your mind, you didn’t dream about her. 

And across town, burrowing under his own covers, listening to Bucky and Sandra’s disturbingly-harmonized snores from across the hall, Sam dreamt about you. 


	4. Four

His number sat idly in your phone for nearly a week. Back-to-back shifts and a soul-numbing exhaustion put a little space between the warmth of his smile, the soothing timbre of his voice, but not enough. Not enough that you couldn’t help but think of his eyes when you stirred a spoonful of cinnamon into your morning coffee; nor the notes of his laugh when you binged a few sitcom reruns in the pale, watery light of an early morning. 

He was _present_. There. The mystery of it was, where had he come from? And how had he inked himself in your life so quickly? 

It was the sort of question _she_ would know the answer to; Helen, with her sharp compassion, sensible and attuned even to strangers, to new hearts. Easy to see why she’d become a therapist, really. 

But you’d broken that door down, too long ago. She had, too. Tangled herself so thoroughly -- 

No. Don’t go there. 

Whenever you talked to yourself like this, though, it was _Helen’s_ voice. Crisp, clear. No-nonsense, that was her. 

Scrolling through your phone, daily, to see her name and number still there. A string of text messages ranging from the mundane -- _Why is almond milk so expensive? Helpppp_ \-- to the more memorable: 

_It’s like I don’t know him anymore_. 

Claws in your throat, the memory was. You swallowed around it as best you could manage, then pushed away from the kitchen table. Stacks of takeout boxes, a salad bowl you’d yet to put away from last night. Laundry poured over the edge of the couch, but there was a migraine beckoning from some deep, dark corner, and all you could think about was ash in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, a warm, dry hand gripping yours ‘til he was white-knuckled. 

_Where did she go?_

So many questions. 

And you just didn’t want to answer.

Sleep was soft, and a bit like drowning. 

* * *

The apartment door swung open with a violent shriek, Bucky slamming it behind him with a wild look in his eyes. “Holy _shit_ ,” he panted, back against the door, hair mussed and tangled; neck streaked with whatever glossy pink lipstick Sandra had been wearing. “That girl...I’m...Sammy, I’m exhausted.” 

Sam spat out a mouthful of Cheerios into the sink, narrowly missing his phone and his Italian notebook, propped up on the countertop to take advantage of a spare few minutes. He had a yoga session after dinner, and was in dire need of a grocery trip -- his night out at Leo’s had messed with his routine. Hence the Cheerios for dinner. 

“Keep your business to yourself, please,” Sam grumbled, reaching for a cloth. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want to hear about your _escapades_.” 

Bucky blanched. “Whoa, dude, _no_ ,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair and grabbing in the fridge for his water bottle. “Not that. No escapades. I haven’t had escapades in like, four days.” 

“That long?” Sam asked, feigning concern. “Is it about to fall off?”

“‘Jealous’ isn’t a good look on you, Wilson.” 

“Yeah, well, everything else is.” 

“ _Damn_ ,” Bucky grinned, clapping him on the back. “There’s my bestie. Where’ve you been? Buried under fraction quizzes?” 

Where had he been? Laughing with Bucky, teasing him about his newest girl, who, apparently, liked to do _everything._ Bucky’s dates with her so far had been active -- axe throwing, a hike, a spin class. “Like, I work out for a _living_ ,” he said glumly, nearly twenty minutes later, by now poking his spoon into a half-eaten carton of ice cream. “It’s fun and all, and she’s happy, but I don’t know, we’re just not clicking.” 

Sam’s watch beeped insistently, reminding him he was going to be late for his class, but strangely, he found he didn’t care. One of his oldest and best friends needed him right now, and the desire to be present was so strong, washing over him with a surge of energy. 

He missed this. 

Missed being this guy, this friend. Missed looking at this idiot, clearly in love with his business partner, mournfully eating his way through the unhealthiest shelves in the kitchen, all the while skirting the most obvious and important detail of his life. He’d be nice to Sandra, as he had been to all the others. Bucky always was. A kind, dutiful hookup. 

“Listen, man,” Sam said quietly, drumming his fingers on the counter -- he was going to be late, he was going to miss the yoga class. No one would miss him; it was drop-in, technically. It was fine, it was okay, he’d gone for a jog that morning -- “she’s nice. She’s pretty, and really funny.” 

He listed her virtues as honestly as he could, watching the weight shift from Bucky’s shoulders as he did so. “She’s cool,” Bucky added. “Really cool, she’s got so many interests.” 

A wan smile was all Sam could muster; he’d been here before. For other women, for longer relationships; been there to help Bucky gently poke at the faultlines of the relationship, do it as delicately as possible. Blame it on work schedules, on conflicting goals; on divergent hobbies, even. Always, always, always avoiding the obvious. 

But Sam could do this tonight. Be this guy for him. This friend. Anxiety had poured him into another mold for a while, and probably would always try to pull him back, will him to stomp down the hall to his bedroom, shut the door on anything that wasn’t work, wasn’t the fervent need to just _be perfect_. And maybe he was messing up here. Maybe coddling Bucky -- a thirty year old man -- in this moment wasn’t the best thing to do right now, but if it was a mistake, it was one made in love, and it was one they could fix in the morning. 

“She deserves someone better.” Bucky scraped at the last bits of chocolate ice cream in the carton, relief smudging his features into something near to a smile, but not quite there. “She deserves someone who can keep up with her.” 

“Just because she might be better off with someone else doesn’t mean you’re not enough, Buck,” Sam said softly. “You’re a good guy, you know.” 

Blue eyes blinked up at him; loneliness was carved there. For a man who spent so much of his time in the company of others, Bucky _was_ lonely. Sam had felt it out there on the lake, and again now. 

Sam was lonely, too. 

He thought of his students, his colleagues. Mia, the yoga instructor with the French braid and braces; John, his favourite barista, a sleeve full of tattoos and twin girls at home; and you. 

You. 

This glorious, gilded surprise of a woman, who had stepped into his life so abruptly, turned around and there you were. And again at Leo’s -- the moment he’d pushed away from settling, taken a break just to breathe, and there you were. Spilling an appletini all over Bucky’s shirt; taking his breath away again and again in that strange, eclectic club. 

It was everything a perfectionist like Sam railed against: random, sporadic, unpredictable. Messy. Imperfect. 

And you there, in the middle of it all, _making_ it perfect. Or, if not perfect, inevitable. 

Meant to be. 

* * *

A glass of wine lent a kiss of courage; a clean apartment seemed to freshen your mind, and it was on the heels of these two things that you began typing out a message to Sam. Text seemed...easier...for the time being, since you couldn’t quite recall the particulars of your conversation at Leo’s, only the vague but comforting notion of _rightness_. 

Sam was right. Being with him was right. 

_Hey_ , you wrote, nerves fluttering softly. _Hope you’re having a good week! Just checking in. I really enjoyed chatting with you the other night._

You pressed send before you could throw up in mortification. 

_Chatting with you._

_Checking in._

“Shit,” you murmured, surprised when his reply popped up only a split second later. 

It was...him. 

Wry, complaining lightly but not intensely of living with his roommate, apparently going through some romantic trials. An emoji surprised you. A follow-up -- how was your week? 

_Getting there_. 

It was honest. Not scrubbed shiny, of course, but honest. And there was something about Sam that prompted that. Nurtured it. Coaxed it out and let it flourish. 

_We’re just about to order pizza. Do you want to join?_

A heartbeat; another. Heat flooded your belly, turned your limbs loose and easy on the couch. This was...unexpected. But not unwelcome. Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed more appealing than the prospect of pizza with Sam, and this mysterious, melodramatic roommate. An adventure you wanted to be a part of. 

_I’ll be right there_ , you replied, tossing your phone down as his address chimed through. Well, not right there; he was blocks away. But that was fine, that was good. An outfit came together quickly -- it was far easier to dress for a comfortable night in than an outing.

Helen’s voice tickled a memory as you chose a pair of leggings and a suitable top. Dressing you up for a gala, an awards ceremony, always looking elegant and gorgeous herself; a smooth, dark chignon and the most devastating gowns. Twirling around her bedroom or yours, little girls playing dress-up. Laughter spilling, bubbling, frothing from the edges of the room until he’d come in, stern smile melted away. 

_Sweetheart_ , he called her. And you’d been half in love with their love. 

It was nearly an hour later that you finally reached Sam’s building. Eleventh floor. A wry welcome mat stretched in front of the door. An elderly woman assessed you from two places over, a yipping dog impatiently wiggling at her feet. “Which one?” she asked. 

You shot her a nervous smile, wishing you’d thought to knock on the door before engaging. “Um, I...um, pardon?” 

“The sweet one, he’s quiet. But the other one...the Barnes boy, he’s got a revolving door of them. His mother worries,” the woman said, voice pinched. She pushed a pair of sunglasses -- why, you weren’t sure, it was past seven p.m. -- onto her nose and then tugged gently on her dog’s leash. “She wants grandchildren, you know. But if you’re here for the sweet one, promise to get him to have some fun, won’t you? He needs it. Come on, Daisy.” 

_The sweet one_. 

You thought of warm brown eyes; a cheeky smile. Smooth, neat beard; that lemon-yellow shirt. 

Yeah, the sweet one. 

But it was the Barnes boy who opened the door: a shock of dark hair and bright blue eyes, a shit-eating grin curving across his lips as he looked you up and down. You bristled at that, but there didn’t seem to be anything licentious about his gaze. More...amusement? 

“So you’re real,” he said, crossing his arms over a fairly broad chest. “And you brought soda.” 

Drawing yourself up to full height, you mirrored his long, appraising look. Head to toe. An athleisure addict if you’d ever seen one; he wore a tight, black, long-sleeved shirt that emphasized his chest, bearing the name of a gym you remembered had sent you a coupon mailer a few months ago. 

He winked. 

“Real,” you confirmed, sticking out your free hand to shake his and offer your name. “You must be the melodramatic roommate.” 

The grin slid from his face. “Wilson, you son of a bitch,” he said sharply, turning on his heel and stomping further into the apartment. “You said my feelings were valid!” 

Gingerly, you followed, kicking off your shoes into a pile by the door, stepping through a narrow hallway into a surprisingly open apartment main room. Kitchen and living room blended fluidly; and everything was, just as you’d anticipated, _neat_. 

Cool blues and greys; tasteful, minimalist art. Save for a pile of workout clothes and a thick red duffel bag next to the couch, it was neat as a pin. And yet, homey, too. The Barnes boy carried on yelling down another, shorter hallway, while you stood awkwardly next to a breakfast bar, the cans in your hand seeming to grow heavier with each passing minute. On the counter next to you, a grease-spotted pizza box wafted a heavenly, tempting scent. 

And so did he. 

Sam stepped into view, wearing charcoal joggers and a white sweatshirt you could happily have snuggled right up in; the thought struck you warm and sweet. Arresting in its tenderness. 

He smelled of Irish Spring again, and something comfortable. Here he was, in his space, in sock feet and a shy smile, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as the Barnes boy continued to prattle on, listing off a litany of complaints. “And you know what, I could call Sandra right now and we could --”

“Don’t,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the gleam of light on Sam’s thick-framed glasses. “Don’t call Sandra.” 

Sam gave you a slow, honeyed smile. “So I see you’ve met and instinctively understand Bucky,” he said quietly, reaching for a stack of plates. “She’s right, by the way. You’re not calling Sandra.” 

A small groan of protest, followed by the _squeak_ of the couch cushions as Bucky flopped down. You bit back a grin, not entirely sure if this was a joke, exaggerated heartbreak; or something genuine. A glint in Sam’s eye, though, hinted at a bit of both. A healthy amount of both. 

“I’m glad you could...I mean, I know I should’ve…” Sam bit his bottom lip, looking every inch the shy boy on a first date. Your heart squeezed at the thought. “I’m glad you were off tonight,” he finished with a weak smile, passing a plate. “I know you’re busy, so it...I just…” 

“What kind did you get?” Bucky rubbed his hands together, enough for you to see some -- were those scars? Snaking underneath the wrist of his left sleeve. He followed your gaze, and then promptly tugged it down further. 

Embarrassment prickled, though his face was impassive. Friendly, you supposed.

“Greek and cheese.” Sam rummaged in a drawer for the pizza cutter, flipping open the lid to reveal a half and half monstrosity that smelled _divine_. He was precise in his slicing, quiet in his invitation to come sit down in the living room. 

Bucky queued up a true crime show on Netflix, but of greater interest was the flex of Sam’s arms as he pulled off the white hoodie, folded it neatly on the arm of the couch. The gentle angle of his smile as he caught your eye. A series of framed childish artworks marching above the television. 

For a few minutes, the three of you simply ate in silence, Bucky avidly listening as the narrator explained the mysterious circumstances of this 1960s kidnapping. As strange as it was to be here, in his place, with a man you’d only met twice -- oh, no. Was it _stupid_? 

You’d texted the address to Scott before leaving your own apartment, and he’d promised to check in a few times throughout the evening. He knew where you were, knew you planned on being home by ten o’clock at the latest. And Sam was kind. Maybe a little charmingly awkward. 

Helen probably would’ve come with you. 

“Um, how was your day?” you asked softly, plucking at a stray olive on your plate. 

Sam’s eyes widened; was it a hard question? “It was good,” he said. “Monthly staff meeting, and, uh, my kids are getting ready for a winter concert.” 

_My kids_. 

His whole voice and bearing softened as he spoke about his job and his students; it was something you’d observed that night at Leo’s, too. Sam leaned naturally into the cup of this identity, soaked up the pride and the enthusiasm inherent and needed. And as fascinating as you found “teacher Sam,” you yearned to get to know him a little deeper, too. 

He loved his students, loved his career. From those two points alone, it was easy to surmise his broader character, and yet…

Sam held something back. 

“How was your day?” he asked suddenly, breaking off an explanation of something Lindsey, a student you could recall only hazily, had said today. 

_Not good_. 

Not good for most of the day, really. But better now. Much better. 

Bucky’s phone began ringing before you could respond, though. Through a mouthful of Greek pizza, he responded: 

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said quickly, grabbing for the remote to pause his show. “Yeah, I’m here. What do you need?” 

You raised an eyebrow in Sam’s direction, mouthing _Sandra?_

Sam just shook his head, a smile playing about his lips as Bucky continued. “I put it in the back room. Yep. No, that email’s queued to go tomorrow. The tweet, too. Okay. Yeah, honey, I took care of it.” 

His voice had changed. Coated in sugar, in feather-soft affection. Sam tilted his head, studying Bucky as he wrapped up the phone call, breaking out into a wide, welcome smile. “Oh, really? Nice. Okay, yeah, you too. Have a good night. Mmhmm. Yep. Okay, ‘bye.” 

Bucky held his phone for a minute longer, staring at the black screen with soft regret. “You good, buddy?” Sam asked, nudging another slice of pizza in his direction. 

Shoulders sinking, Bucky pushed away from the couch, leaving the pizza and his can of soda on the coffee table. “She’s got a date,” he said in a hoarse voice, swallowing thickly. “Nice meeting you.”

And he left. Shuffled down the second hallway; door closing on sudden sadness with an echoing _click_. 

* * *

You smelled of some floral soap or shampoo, maybe perfume; drinking pink cream soda, and all Sam could think about was how it might taste on your lips. This evening had been full of distraction -- _pretty_ distraction -- but with Bucky’s abrupt retreat, Sam found himself tugged in another direction. 

Punching in a few buttons, Sam turned off the TV, realizing that little could be done now to salvage the cozy evening. “So,” he sighed, turning to you, a calm, expectant expression on your face. “That...I mean…”

“Not Sandra,” you confirmed, wiping at your mouth with a napkin. “But someone...important?” 

“Very.” 

“And she’s got a date? He’s not happy about it?” 

_Ah_. 

There was the complexity. Because Sam knew Bucky well enough to know that he _was_ happy for the woman added to his contacts as _Gorgeous_. The woman he had built a business with; his best friend besides Sam. And yet, they remained only friends. Only business partners. Running the gym together, spending nearly every day together. But never slipping beyond that. 

Sam fell in love with the furrow in your brow; the intentional way you pushed away the plate and wiggled closer on the couch. Close enough that your thigh brushed his. A hitch in his breath had your lips curving into a smile he wanted to kiss. 

He was bewildered with the pace of this -- he’d only met you twice. Three times, now. And yet even then, in his classroom, you’d seemed to occupy some new space in his life -- an absence he hadn’t yet recognized. “He’s in love with her,” you said slowly, sweetly. 

Sam nodded. 

The greatest heartbreak of his life so far had been watching those two fools avoid the inevitable, he told you. Years had passed. Years in which Bucky had pushed away meaningful connection. “I’m not shitting on hook-ups, or Tinder, or dating around,” he rushed to clarify, twisting so he was facing you, “don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging. But I think the success of that kind of depends on the individuals, on what they’ve got going on besides the hook-up. Bucky has met some really nice people through there, had some good relationships.” 

You agreed, explaining that your friend Scott had met his current girlfriend through online dating; while Clint and Laura had been high school sweethearts. “And Steve --” 

Oh, you swallowed that name. An apologetic smile had Sam feeling uneasy, but he trudged through it. “Everybody’s different,” he continued. “But Bucky? His soulmate has been right there beside him for years and neither of them are willing to take the plunge.” 

“How do you know?” 

Sam blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in your tone. “What’s that?” 

Picking at the hem of the throw draped on the back of the couch, you averted your eyes, looking anywhere but at him. “How do you know they’re soulmates?” you asked in a low voice. 

“Well, it’s obvious. They’re perfect for each other.” 

“Lots of people have built businesses together, work together. Have friends in common. And they’re not meant to be together romantically.” 

Sam bristled, unsure of where this was going; realizing with a twist of longing that your thigh had moved away. “Look, I’m just saying, it’s not a good idea to go meddling in your friends’ love lives,” you said stiffly. “Bucky’s an adult. If he wants to sleep around and push away his real feelings, that’s his business, not yours.” 

“But --” 

“It’s not a good idea,” you repeated. “Sam, it’s just not. It’s great that you love him so much and want the best for him, but shoving Bucky into the life _you’ve_ decided he needs to lead, that’s only distancing you from your own. And you’re going to end up losing that friendship.” 

You stood, and Sam watched the flowing lines of your shirt, wished he could touch them, pull you back, grab your hand and melt along the curves and edges, quell this frustration, wherever it had come from. But you’d made a decision, and he was helpless in the face of it. “Just...just live your own life for a little while,” you muttered. “Let him do his stupid thing, and you do yours. Otherwise, you’re both going to end up hurt. Thanks for the pizza.” 

Sam opened his mouth in the shape of a plea, but you were already gone. 


	5. Five

Tuesday morning found you parked uncomfortably in a chair across from Steve’s desk, listening with growing irritation at the clacking of his computer keys. An email, he’d told you offhandedly, after _summoning_ you to his office during your mid-morning coffee break. Mouth full of powdered doughnut, you’d quietly followed him in here and pushed away the memory of that Thanksgiving dinner, two years ago, when he had sunk down to one knee and -- 

“Just another minute,” he said tersely, as though he could detect your bad mood. And maybe he could, honestly. You and Steve had worked together long enough, been friends long enough, that even you could read, by the way he flicked at a stray pen on his desk, that he was tense, too. 

“No problem.” 

There was a bite to the words that had Steve raising his eyebrows, but no other reaction. He clicked an emphatic _send_ , and then drew his piercing, cold gaze over the desk to you -- you suppressed a shiver. 

You’d borne witness to his heartbreak, his rage. To the slow fizzling of good feelings and joy. And you’d come out the other side with a limp to your gait and a sore spot in your history, a place you didn’t venture too often. Watching it all unfold, being _blamed_ …

It was almost too much. 

“So,” Steve said, in his Captain’s voice, folding his hands atop his desk, “I’ve got a proposition for you.” 

Ah. 

For Steve, _propositions_ were rarely equitable with _suggestions_. 

“First aid course for civilians,” he explained. “We’ve got a bit of a surplus, not enough to do anything major, and the optics are good.” 

“Are we talking babysitter first aid, something more involved?” 

“Basic certification, minimum 16,” he replied, looking down at his calendar now. “I’m thinking Saturday afternoons, to encourage teenagers to come by. They can do it for some school credit, I think. I’ve got Sharon fielding emails from a couple of boards.” 

You nodded, _almost_ connecting the dots, but not quite. “And you want me to…” 

“Lead the sessions. There’ll be four of them. Saturdays starting next week. Noon to three. We’ll hold it in the community room, I think that should be big enough.” 

There was no hint of a suggestion in his tone, or his expression, which remained hard, cool. 

You could say _no_. Of course you could. He’d said nothing of overtime, or pay. And you weren’t some newbie, a rookie too intimidated by big, bad Captain Rogers to simply agree to anything he’d suggested, and pile your plate higher and higher. Days off were precious things, time for rest and recuperation. Time to be yourself -- or at least, begin crawling back to whoever that had been. 

But there was some appeal to this. First aid courses were _important_ , especially for young people. 

And it wasn’t as though you had much to fill your days’ off with, anyway. Sleeping, sure. Bit of social media scrolling. But now that Cassie had started playing ringette, Scott’s free time was spent cheering her on at the rink (he brought personalized posters even to practices); and Clint and Laura were doing renovations _again_. 

Sometimes you thought about reaching out to her on your days off. Sending a text to meet back at your usual table at Leo’s, or an invitation to grab a sundae at that ice cream place she loved. And then maybe make a joke about how the only way the two of you knew how to connect was over food. 

Yeah, something like that. 

When had friendship gotten so complicated?

When had _life_?

Distantly, you heard yourself agreeing to Steve’s plan, agreeing to watch out for his explanatory email. Promising to call Sharon for more information. When he stood, and extended an awkward reach over the desk, you shook his hand professionally, civilly. As though you hadn’t once felt him soak your shirt through with his tears; or listened to the echo of his heartbreak all through his lonely apartment. 

His vulnerability sat in the palm of your hand, as you met his gaze over the desk. Steve’s lips parted, as though he had something else to say -- _I’m sorry, I miss her, you didn’t deserve that_ \-- but the only thing that came out was a stiff, “Dismissed.” 

_Dismissed_. 

He was so good at that. 

* * *

Weeks had passed since the disastrous pizza date, and Sam found himself, once again, blearily wide awake and dreaming at four o’clock in the morning. He’d had yet to contact you, or even to properly explain to Bucky why you had left so early. 

He kept stroking back over the sequence of events, fixating on the ragged note of pain in your voice as you’d pointed out so many of his flaws. One or two of them, really. Still, it stung. 

It all stung. 

The empty space of you in his life; the silent text thread on his phone; Bucky’s baleful, probing looks as he came in from a shift at the gym or disappeared into his bedroom for a Skype meeting. He was planning on leaving for a conference in a few days, but Sam had yet to actually catch the location. 

At school, he was _on_. As always. He never wanted the kids to suspect there was something wrong; Sam knew well enough that he was, for many of them, the only stable adult in their world. He couldn’t relinquish that simply because a girl he’d met three times had walked out on him. 

The blankets pooled around his waist as he sat up in bed; outside his window, the city slept in a deep, wintery darkness, punctuated here and there by street lights, passing cars, and the distant, bright thicket of skyscrapers. Sam wrapped his arms around his legs, and thought of you here. 

You here in his desk chair, rifling through that stack of lesson plans. Peering closer at that picture of him and his parents, on the beach in North Carolina for his cousin’s wedding. “You have your mom’s eyes,” you’d whisper, standing in the dark. Cradling his jaw in your hand. “And your dad’s ears.” 

“And what belongs to me?” Sam would ask. 

A smile as slow and sweet as honey; a touch, fingers braided together, the surprising callouses of your palm. Sam would imagine you with those thick gloves, rope and hoses sliding through the same easy grip that held him so gently. “This,” you’d say, placing one of his hands over his heart; the other over yours. 

Sam had been in love before. Terribly, deeply, achingly. In love with women, with moments, with memories. But this felt different. It wasn’t a careful, cautious series of exchanged glances across a high school cafeteria; nor a lecture hall at college. It wasn’t networking with friends to get her number, or dutifully filling out an online dating profile with Bucky and his latest lover glancing over his shoulder, offering advice. 

This was a surprise. 

And the thrill of that went against everything in his methodical nature. 

He should text you. Call you. Email. Show up at the station with a bouquet of flowers and apologize for losing himself in everyone’s life but his. 

But wouldn’t that be exactly what you’d been protesting against? Meddling in _your_ life? 

“Ugh.” The noise of it gnawed gummily at his tired brain. All he wanted was a solution. A neat and easy fix. To know the right thing to say and be able to just _say it_. 

He clicked on his desk lamp and searched through the drawers before locating his Italian notebook. Might as well squeeze in a bit of practice, if he was going to be losing sleep. 

An hour passed in quiet verb conjugation and new vocabulary lists. He sipped at a bitter cup of coffee in pale, fluttering dawn, and, suddenly curious, began flipping through the pages. At least three quarters of the book was full; traced in his precise, fervent hand. Pen pushed nearly all the way through. And for what? 

Sam had downloaded the app on a whim months ago. Simply because he was tired of those loose few minutes that always seemed to pepper through his day: not enough time for a workout, for a big task, but still empty. Needing something. Anything. 

There was a small, raw part of Sam that feared absence, emptiness. And so he outran it, dodged it, every single time. Cramming his time with anything and everything. 

_Why_? 

Why, when the best minutes of his past few weeks had centred around the most unpredictable of moments? Celebrating the birth of Lindsey’s baby brother with a class dance party? Sure, it had eaten into his math lesson, derailed the energy level for the entire afternoon, but even now, as he yawned through an epiphany, Sam couldn’t forget the look of utter joy on his students’ faces as they’d wiggled around the room. And his evening with you. 

You. 

The brightest spot; the best moment. And he hadn’t seen you coming. 

In the kitchen, he flicked on the coffeemaker and poured himself a glass of water. Outside, the city stirred, sunshine pooling in the most surprising of places around the apartment. He and Bucky had chosen it for the windows, he remembered suddenly. A vivid recollection of standing in the living room, bare of furniture, hands twitching at his sides and debt up to his ears, finding comfort in the little patches of light the realtor was pointing out. 

Sam studied one such patch right now, as it lingered on the small windowsill, flecked with old, peeling paint, above the sink. Maybe a plant would work well there, he thought. Granted, the view outside left much to be desired, simply facing the fire escape of the building next door, but a plant. Yeah. A _succulent_. He made a mental note to talk to Natasha about that. Her classroom was full of them. 

His phone buzzed. A reminder to finish his Italian lesson. To start his morning yoga. To make his bed, to get a load of laundry ready, to take out the garbage, and to wake up -- 

“Bucky.” 

It was rare for him to be awake this early, rarer still for him to be neatly dressed. A crisp blue button-down, tugged down securely over his scars; new jeans. A leather overnight bag was slung over one shoulder, and a sleepy smile emerged from under dark, damp partings of hair. “Morning, sunshine,” he said, mustering only a shadow of his usual snark. “I’m heading out. Early flight.” 

“Want a ride?” 

“Yeah, but I asked my good buddy Uber,” he joked, reaching for an apple from the bowl on the breakfast bar. “It’s all good, man. See you in a couple days, yeah?” 

Guilt lurched in Sam’s stomach; he hadn’t been as supportive as he could have been in anticipation of this trip. Things would be different this time; in the past, work trips with his business partner had been cause for excitement: movie nights in modest hotels; silly Snaps sent back to Sam; both of them returning to New York all fired up with new ideas for the gym. 

A mournful kind of instinct warned Sam not to expect any of that this time. 

He was a nice guy. A sales rep for a protein bar company that had stopped by to organize a display of new flavours at the gym. Bucky had met him a couple of times before, but to his surprise, Ted and Gorgeous had quickly hit it off. 

She’d gone on out on a date with him the night you’d left. 

There were shadows under his eyes, a quietness drag to his humour. Jokes came out clumsy and rarely. Gorgeous hadn’t been around. Most nights saw Bucky holed up in his bedroom, the blue light of his laptop seeping under the door and into the hall, wrapped in long-sleeved layers. 

That was always a bad sign. 

Sam pushed around the edge of the countertop and grabbed him into a bear hug. “Stay safe, yeah?” he said quietly, clapping Bucky on the back. “And have a good time.” 

Was it just his imagination, or did Bucky squeeze a little tighter? Stay a little longer? 

When he pulled away, a small smile played about his lips. A ghost of his usual cheeky grin, but Sam would take it. 

Sam would take it, and would trust him to move forward. As hard as it was to watch Bucky leave the apartment, knowing he was stepping into stress, and possible heartbreak, Sam had to trust him. Had to take away this sense of control, of being needed. 

Bucky could handle his shit. 

And Sam could handle his. 

The door closed, and Sam’s thumbs began flying over the screen of his phone, typing out an email that he hoped wasn’t arriving too late. 

* * *

Clint had taught First Aid for years, but his collection of training manuals were woefully out of date, and he himself wasn’t proving to be the _best_ source of information when it came to instructional tips and tricks. You pulled an orange post-it note from the dustier of the three books; his familiar scrawl said something about _eye contact_. 

_Really_ helpful. 

With a sigh, tapping a pen impatiently against the break room table, you turned back to the suggested schedule for the training course, as well as the list of students already signed up. Their ages were listed next to their names; an astonishing amount of them under the age of twenty. You’d need to figure out a way to keep them engaged, as well as teaching all of the material required for certification. 

“Kill me,” you muttered under your breath. 

“You know, I _have_ been thinking about a second career.” Scott set a Starbucks cup in front of you, squeezing your shoulder briefly before he sat down with his own -- piled high with whipped cream and _reeking_ of peppermint. “What’s up, Sparky?” 

A weary gesture towards the stack of papers and coil-bound books. “Regret,” you explained. “Bitter regret.” 

“Pretty sure that was the name of that French perfume I bought Hope for Christmas last year,” he said, flipping through a glossy but dated pamphlet. “Can I help?” 

“This is gonna be so _boring_ , Scott,” you whined, reaching for the coffee. “How am I going to be able to keep people -- I mean, look at the number of teenagers signed up. They’re going to mutiny out of sheer boredom.” 

He’d gotten cinnamon in it, just the way you like; it went down warm and a little comforting, but not nearly enough to quell the faint pricklings of panic. It wasn’t like you to back down from a challenge, especially one as manageable as this, but the pressure of performing to the Captain’s expectations, as well as just…

“There’s gotta be a way to make it interesting,” Scott said, flicking through one of the thicker books now. “You know the info inside and out, just have to figure out a delivery method, that’s all. Hey” -- and here his expression brightened, smile curling across his face -- “how about that teacher? I’m sure he’d be _eager_ to help.” 

You smacked his arm at the wiggling of his brows, pushing away the logic of yes, just _asking_ the nearest teacher for some teaching tips. But since the night you’d left his apartment in a flurry of melodrama, you’d had yet to reach out to Sam. 

It was a combination of embarrassment and fear haunting you, in those moments when you picked up your phone, scrolled to his name. One quick text, an email, a call -- maybe a request to meet up at Leo’s, or a coffee shop. 

The comforting prospect of seeing him was marred only by a sense of guilt, for speaking so sharply and going radio-silent. Whatever had reared its head during that last conversation was rooted, you knew, in Helen and Steve and the mess of that day. You’d seen him meddling in Bucky’s life, making the same mistake you had, and then that poor man, folding in on himself, delicate as origami but not nearly as beautiful in that pose, heartbreak scrawled right there in his faltering expression. 

You’d seen it on Steve’s face, too. Helen’s. 

“Hey, Sparky.” Scott’s voice came low and warm, sweet as the faint whipped cream mustache above his upper lip. “You good? Where’d you go?” 

Back to that apartment, back to the slick slide of an awful miscalculation, trickling through your fingertips, away and away. But Scott, looking at you with mild concern and an ocean of friendship in his eyes, just waited. Ever patient, caring for you even in the strange moments. 

Two messages needed to be sent, you realized. But for one, a handwritten request might be better. 

You fired off a text, and, taking another sip of coffee, drew a blank piece of paper towards you, and began to write; Scott holding that same sweet, silent vigil. 

* * *

_Hey, Sam_ \-- 

He fairly jumped at the words onscreen. In the quiet of the classroom, the buzz of his phone had seemed almost deafening, and the consequences of the message even more so.

_I know it’s lame to ask this after rushing out the other night…_

_There’s stuff I’d like to talk about…_

_If you’re willing and able (I know you’re busy)..._

Leo’s. You wanted to meet at Leo’s, in the warm cup of a Wednesday afternoon, just after school, for coffee (did Leo even _serve_ coffee, Sam wondered), and some help with First Aid training. 

A wide grin spilt over his face, sunny enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if it lit up the whole room. Sam stood, pushing aside the papers on his desk, the class novel, and resisted the urge to actually _skip_ down the hallway to get the kids from the playground -- he’d have to at least wait before typing out a short, sweet response. 

He hoped you smiled, too. 

* * *

_Dear Helen,_

_This letter probably feels a bit too-little, too-late, given how long it’s been and how much has happened since that night. I wanted to reach out and let you know I was still thinking of you, that I still have questions and apologies to make. I know he does, too, but he can write his own letter._

_I miss you. Let me just start with that. I wish you were here, not a million miles away -- or however far away Chicago actually is. You’d know the answer to that, I’m sure. Or at least be willing to take the time to look it up._

_I miss you so much. Do you remember that time I went away for that backpacking trip? And you said that it was like hitting a bruise in the same place, every single day? Because I wasn’t there at breakfast, or to remind you to bring out the trash, or beat you at Wheel of Fortune? Every day that I was gone, you said, was like revisiting the hurt._

_At least you had Steve._

_I’ve got people too, you know. Scott, and Clint. Hope and Laura. Leo. This new guy I met. He’s like walking, talking poetry, Lennie, you’ve got no idea. His voice comes out like wine, I swear. He’s a teacher, and he’s sitting there talking about reading levels and parent-teacher conferences and I’m just getting drunk on him._

_Well, I was. Messed that up, too. Isn’t that the way? Dive in, heart first, and that’s the first part to drown._

_What I’m trying to say, amidst all this rambling, is that I miss you. I want to talk. I think we can put some things back together, and even if we can’t, I think we owe it to all that time to just try._

_My number is the same. I understand if you’d rather not. If you’ve got some swanky new life in Chicago and don’t want to get burned by us again, feel free to say so, to ignore, to keep silent. Whatever works. No hard feelings, I promise. It was just important to let you know...you’re missed. You’re missed, and you’re certainly not forgotten._

_Lots of love._


	6. Six

Amazingly, Leo’s had managed to change again, this time evoking the general feel of a Parisian café, indoors. Wooden windowpanes lined the hulking interior, painted with watercolour scenes of some _arrondissement_ , each in a different decade. Bistro tables replaced the booths, and wrought-iron lamposts had been brought inside, draped with twinkling lights and leafy vines. 

A quick glance around determined you hadn’t yet arrived, so Sam chose an empty table, covered in a white cloth and already set with a winking candle and a “window” overlooking the _Pont Alexandre III_ \-- which is exactly what he did as he sat down. 

The restaurant was far more muted than it had been in weeks’ past -- when it had been a comedy club, and then an ‘80s rave. Sam found himself relaxing more into the shape of it now, this gentle, pastel space. He took a deep breath, let it hiss out on the last clutches of the tension he’d known since your texts had come through.

It was a confidence he hadn’t known he possessed; or certainly, hadn’t tapped into for some time. Just a forthright determination to keep going, to dive in. Was this planned? No. Was he missing a yoga class? Yes. Did he give a shit? 

Absolutely not. 

Not when you were looking like a Parisian daydream in that soft grey sweater, eyes finding his across the wide expanse of tables and couples and Leo’s knowing smirk from over at the coffee bar. When your gaze met his, Sam knew a warm, sinking sensation -- like sliding into a bubble bath. And there were bubbles brimming inside as he stood, pulled out your chair. 

“Coffee?” For the occasion, Leo had affected a faint French accent, appearing at Sam’s elbow with a small tray, two cups of espresso and a plate of biscotti in hand. She winked up at him, and his whole face heated. 

" _Merci_ ,” he replied, sitting back down and meeting your eye again. A small, kissable smile played about your lips, and he pushed away the memory of the last time he’d thought about kissing you. 

The time that you’d left. 

The stink of that shared memory rose higher than the sharp scent of the coffee, tempered a little by the chocolate edges of the biscotti, and the swell of Leo’s perfume. Sam reached for his cup first, taking a sip that _burned_ , but did his best to mask it with a small cough. 

Leo levelled him with a concerned, almost motherly look, winged eyeliner jarring a bit with the tenderness there. “Anything else you need, give me a shout,” she said quietly, squeezing his shoulder. “I have some macarons coming up soon. I’ll bring them over when they’re ready -- er, I mean, _pret_.” 

You laughed, reaching for your cup. “Thanks, Leo.” 

“Anytime, Sparky.” 

_Sparky_. 

Sam’s eyes lit up as he leaned closer over the table, this new confidence infecting him with an almost gleeful amusement -- he was _here_ , you were _here_ , and you were laughing. Smiling. Dipping a piece of biscotti into your espresso as though that awful night hadn’t happened. “Sparky, huh?” he teased. 

You jabbed the biscotti in his general direction. “That is a Leo-only nickname, _Teach_ ,” you said, grinning now. “And as cute as this is, you know we have to get to the uncomfortable stuff soon, right?” 

His stomach dropped. 

It was kind of amazing, really, that you could switch gears like this. Smiling and laughing, but with this crackling undercurrent of intention. Determination. “Yeah,” he said, trying to keep a squeak of nervousness from his voice. “Sure.” 

Licking your lips, twisting your fingers -- the biscotti and coffee lay forgotten as the minutes ticked by. Sam occupied himself with watching the flicker of the candle in the middle of the table, with the delicate notes of jazz wafting around the restaurant. No, café. 

What was it like in Leo’s head, he wondered idly, sitting there in the quiet, in the waiting. To just up and change her own world like this, month by month -- comedy club, dance club, Parisian café. If he were to visit here next week with you, what would he find? A sushi restaurant? A rock-climbing gym? 

She caught his eye then, twirling with her tray from one small table to another. Kissing the air and distributing pink macarons, chatting animatedly with everyone she encountered. Leo was so free, he realized. So unencumbered by the fragile anxieties that had somehow managed to trick him into thinking they were stronger. 

Sam had spent most of his life waiting, biding his time in the margins for permission to ford ahead. So this time, he rushed the gate. 

“I’m sorry for not checking in with you,” he blurted, visibly catching you by surprise. Your fingers stilled, diving beneath the table, and he kept going, even as your jaw dropped. “You were upset that night,” he continued, “and I should’ve checked in the next day. I should’ve made sure you got home safe.” 

You blinked. “Sam --” 

But he wasn’t done. Nothing was planned. He had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next, but he opened it just the same: “My mom would’ve kicked my ass, honestly, and look, I don’t know if it was me, or Bucky, or just a bunch of things, but I should’ve checked in and I didn’t, and I’m really sorry, and I like you way too much to just let this…” 

_Oh_. 

There it was. Out in the open. Sitting smug and sweet as Leo’s smile -- how had she managed to sneak up on him again? “Seems like a good time for macarons, no?” she purred, setting down a plate of four plump ones. “You guys have fun.” 

Your gaze never left his face; he loved the way it felt. Loved even more the slow advance of your fingers across the table, searching out his skin, his touch. It was impossibly cheesy, and yet, your grip was home, the warmth of your palm and the dawning of your slow, beautiful smile. 

“I like you, too, Teach.” 

Sam breathed, all the pent-up tension slithering from his body; he fairly sagged against the table. So relieved was he, the sound of your voice -- this time emerging shakily -- almost didn’t register: “I have something to say, though.” 

You winced, hand leaving his, coming back to writhe in a tangle on the table in front of you. He hated seeing you nervous, Sam decided firmly. Hated seeing you even the slightest bit upset. “I’ve got some stuff, Sam,” you admitted. “Stuff that sent me out of your apartment that night.” 

A sip of coffee made your fingers tremble even more; _screw that_ , Sam thought, his own hands shooting out to take yours. The table was small enough that he didn’t have to reach far. He gave you a gentle squeeze. “You can tell me anything,” he said softly, though nerves churned in his stomach. He had no idea what was coming next. 

Lips upturned -- it was almost a smile -- you took a deep breath of your own, and took him back nearly three years. 

* * *

It had started with a note, strangely enough, taped to the outside of your apartment door, right under the number plate. No name, just a smiley-face, drawn in a quick hand, purple ink; looking almost like a child’s birthday party invitation. At the time, you were heading out to a shift, backpack slung over one shoulder, a searing travel mug in one hand. Not even thinking twice about it, you’d swept the envelope from the door and hurried down to catch the bus. 

Six hours later, you’d found time to open it. 

_Hey there, neighbour!_

A smile brimming wide, you’d finally “met” the newest resident of your floor. She was quiet, fond of personalized notecards and colourful ink, and signed her name with an artistic flourish that had you intrigued. A flower bloomed from the _H_ in her name. 

_Helen Cho_. 

On the way home from your shift, you stopped in a bodega, half asleep, to pick out a thank-you card. There’d been a moose on the front, if you recalled correctly. 

Back and forth, back and forth. Never putting a face to the name, only vague clues: the hushed _snick_ of her apartment door closing in the midmorning, as you snatched a few hours of sleep on a battered futon. Once, a box of Girl Scout cookies, nudged against the edges of your welcome mat. More notes, more cards, until one day, you opened your door to see her face -- mouth curved prettily with surprise, and amusement in her eyes. 

“Hey, Pen-pal.” 

Pen-pals, to close neighbours, to best friends. She had been in grad school at the time, keeping the oddest hours, but friendship had found a way. Squeezing out through the time constraints, emerging in new traditions: Thursday night movies; monthly manicures; a book club for two, reading only childhood favourites. 

During your backpacking trip, Helen had been your constant point of connection -- she’d check in frequently; display your postcards all over her apartment. Picked you up from the airport dusty and exhausted, with a heart full with love for Morocco, Ethiopia, and Egypt.

And she hadn’t been alone. 

Seeing your captain outside of the station was always an odd experience; Steve liked to keep firmer lines and boundaries than most you’d worked with, and though he was always open to handing over the cash for a round at the bar after a particular gruelling series of shifts, and he had a good memory for birthdays and milestones, you could honestly say you had never seen him in anything but his dress blues or his station uniform. 

At the airport, hand held fast in Helen’s, smile brimming under a pair of sunglasses and a ballcap, but you’d know him anywhere. He looked down at her adoringly, chatted amiably to you, and sat up front with the Uber driver to let the two of you chat about your travels in the backseat. 

As a pleasant surprise, though, Steve was just sort of absorbed into the friendship. Joining in for movie nights, the occasional tidy-up at the manicurists’, and brought along his mint-condition set of _Hardy Boys_ books for discussions. It was a third-wheel situation, but the third-wheel seemed to rotate sustainably between you and Steve. He and Helen were falling in love, deeper and deeper with every passing day, it seemed; but your friendship could endure it all. 

Until that Christmas. Almost a year since they’d met. Double dates had started -- with Scott and Hope, Clint and Laura. Friends from Helen’s work, people you knew only by name. Helen began rescheduling those Thursday nights, but it was fine, completely fine. The friendship could easily ebb and flow around these big changes, and you both welcomed the opportunity to make that happen -- because this was a bond that could last. 

Two spheres of your life had begun to bleed together. Helen had actually met Steve at the station; she’d come in to drop off a souvenir calendar you’d sent along for the breakroom, featuring the most gorgeous pictures of Morocco. And while you were happy for them and with the balance struck, there was...something holding you back. 

A sense of reservation, maybe; a tiny, flickering fear that perhaps things were moving too quickly, that Steve, in particular, was moving too fast. The only thing you’d heard about his personal life was that he’d had a long-term relationship end poorly. Poorly enough that he’d had to take time off work. 

Helen had lived in an NYU bubble for years, rarely having enough time to date, lost in her study groups, research projects, and TA responsibilities. Standing on the outside, you sometimes wondered if they careening towards a moment of reckoning. Hearts full, head over heels, a quick and heady love that consumed. 

You’d seen the first crack, though they hadn’t. 

An argument -- not uncommon, nothing major. Something simple, about a wedding date for one of Helen’s research friends. At this point, she’d graduated, and was well on her way to being hired for the same practice she’d once done a work placement at. The wedding was something she’d been looking forward to for months, but, just three days before, Steve had backed out. Pleading work stuff. 

He’d called you into his office the next day, the unspoken truth curled there on the desk between you: there was no work stuff, no obligation. And he was silently, in so many words, hoping you would keep the secret for him. 

And, sitting a few days later as Helen’s wedding date, you’d come to the realization that, in your complicit silence, you’d simply shoved a knife in that first crack and wedged it wider. 

More and more cracks. A bad fire left Steve shaken; a professional disappointment had Helen crying in your kitchen, unwilling to let him see her so vulnerable. Sandwiched between the better poles of the relationship, you’d eventually come to feel crushed beneath it. Joy curdled to resentment. 

The months sped by in flashes of disappointment, of concealment. Both Helen and Steve used you as a go-between. As with any relationship, there were highs and lows, and you bore the brunt of each. By the time Thanksgiving had arrived, and Steve was calling you into his office to look at engagement rings online, you were torn apart with the sick weight of too many secrets. 

Helen was having doubts. 

Steve was, too, but had chosen to push those down and aside in favour of diving even deeper. “I waited too long with Sharon,” he confessed. “We were together for such a long time, and no commitment. I don’t want to make the same mistake here.” 

Mouth dry, you’d watched him scroll through designs, tossing out phrases like _princess cut_ and _conflict-free diamonds_. Meanwhile, a conversation with Helen bounced around in your head: 

“ _Chicago, can you believe it? For Dr. Banner’s practice. He’s retiring, and he handpicked me to take over the clinic. This would be huge, so big. He’s written books, he’s helped so many people. And I could be a part of that._ ” 

It had all come crashing down. 

Anger -- frustration after months of being _utilized_ , more sounding-board than friend or colleague -- all tangled together with fear of Helen leaving, already missing her. As Steve scrolled through pictures, quietly dreaming of marriage, of righting the wrong from the messy break-up that had nearly upended his whole life, you sat there quietly miserable. 

What you wouldn’t give to be excited about this proposal; thrilled over the job offer. 

The weight of all of that responsibility just settled on your shoulders, and you weren’t sure what to say. Only a pleading text and then phone call to Helen -- “ _Talk to him, Lennie, please. Just tell him now, don’t wait until Thanksgiving_ ” -- and then, a collapse. 

On your couch, fully clothed. Sleeping until the next day, when Steve had hammered on your door, saying his parents had just arrived, Helen’s were on the way, and were you even dressed yet? 

Numbly, you’d watched it all unfold. Two dinner courses; happy parents; Helen and Steve joyfully holding onto rosy secrets. Over dessert, he’d sunk down, into the plush rug beneath the dining room table, and you’d simply shovelled more pie into your mouth, hoping to choke, hoping to disappear, hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t your fault. 

* * *

“Did they blame you?” Sam asked quietly, looking down at his plate. At some point during your story, he’d munched his nervous way through all of the macarons. A few pink crumbs lingered on his shirt; you itched to brush them away. 

“No,” you said. “But I did. Really badly. It messed me up, Sam. I ran out of the apartment and locked the door, didn’t come out for two days. I...I didn’t say goodbye to Helen.” You blinked away a few tears, and then swallowed the past. Let it strengthen you, not tear you down. Just like the counsellor had taught you. 

“I threw myself into work.” A sip of water -- Leo had quietly brought over two elegant wine glasses at some point. “But Steve and I were always walking on eggshells around each other. It was tense. So bad. And then just the weight of all of that...my best friend had the career opportunity of a lifetime, and she got caught off-guard in front of everyone. And there was just...God, it was just a big mess.” 

He swallowed, abruptly wanting to hug you, but not sure if you were there yet. There was something small and shy in the way you wrapped your arms around yourself now, casting a self-conscious glance around the café. 

Something dropped into place. 

“So when you saw me meddling with Bucky…” he said slowly, the realization dawning then. “You...you thought I was kind of caught the same way you were?” 

A sad smile. “Sort of. I never intended to get caught in the middle like that, but honestly, I could’ve jumped out any time. I’m an adult, I know my boundaries. I was just...caught up with it all. Felt important. Maybe a small part of me didn’t want to risk letting that feeling go.

“But I listened to you talking about Bucky and his friend and how you thought they were soulmates and it just kind of worried me, that you were purposefully seeking out something that had accidentally blown up in my face.” The words came out in a rush; you looked up at him, and damn it -- he stood, you followed, and he pulled you into his arms. 

You felt right there. 

“Want to go for a walk?” he breathed, feeling your nod rather than seeing it. 

Leo waved him away from the coffee bar, saying something that might have been French, might have been Greek, but Sam guessed she meant the coffee and treats had been on the house. “You okay, Sparky?” she asked, gaze sliding over your face anxiously. 

You gave Sam the smile first: “Yeah, I am,” you said. 

Sam felt it burble and bubble up inside him, the joy. The relief. 

The clarity. 

* * *

It was a cold walk, through dark New York streets, but Sam’s hand was warm and broad around yours. The truth had come out, for the first time in a long time, and you were relieved -- surprisingly. Sam didn’t hate you. In fact, you gathered, from the way his lips brushed your cheek at the bus stop -- maybe he even liked you a bit more. 

“Listen, I want to talk more,” you said softly, squeezing his hand, looking deeper into those gorgeous brown eyes. “But I do have some business to attend to first.” 

“Oh?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Talk to me, honey.” 

_Honey_. 

You laughed. “Calm down, Teach. No, it’s just...I’ve got those First Aid training sessions to plan. I was hoping for some pointers on how to keep the students engaged. If that’s not too much trouble.” 

A pleasant heat kindled in Sam’s belly at the thought -- it was half-pride, half-excitement. You’d come to him for help, trusted him to help you. “And, oh God, I hadn’t thought of this, but I really don’t want you think I only told you the truth because I wanted tips, I really do like you, Sam, I just need --” 

What you needed, Sam didn’t hear. All he registered was the velvet press of your lips against his, the curve of your jaw in the cradle of his hand. The tiniest whimper erupting from the back of your throat. 

Kissing you was everything. It was home at the end of a long road; the sweetest surprise. He lingered; you chased him. Snow falling softly around the two of you, arms winding closer, a few wolf-whistles from bystanders, but all Sam felt was _this_. 

This wonderful, homecoming-moment, made just for him and for you. 

He hadn’t seen it coming. 


	7. Epilogue

_Hey_. 

You smiled down at your phone. 

_Hey, Teach_. 

What a dork, you thought. Texting you from the kitchen, with you wrapped up in bed. 

_Want eggs?_

You sent back two chicken emojis, hoping that said it all. 

A light curse trickling down the hall plainly said that it didn’t. 

“Yes, please, _lover_!” you called out, laughter trimming every inch of every word. Collapsing back onto the pillows with an audible _huff_ , you tossed your phone aside and curled up deeper into the warm absence he’d left on the mattress. The pillow smelled of his cologne; his book was on the nightstand; and his clothes were strewn all over the floor. 

A wider smile at that: a messy Sam was always a passionate one. But he was precise and thorough in _so many_ other ways. 

Love was laughter and inside jokes, you thought, reaching for his book. Inside, he’d marked his page with a laminated card made by one of his students -- _Naomi_ , you realized. She had neatly traced her name at the bottom, decorating the rest with a rainbow of stars. 

Yawning, you flipped through the novel -- some thriller set in Italy. It was a cozy Saturday morning, and you were grateful for the time off. The past few weeks had been an absolute whirlwind -- Bucky arriving home from his conference with some _very_ big news; Sam spending most of his time at your apartment while _that_ worked itself out; and just the usual heady, early days of a relationship. 

Scott was surprised, but liked Sam immensely. Leo approved, and had been quite intrigued by Sam’s idea for a rock-climbing gym. All in all, as quickly as things were unfolding, you were falling deliciously fast, and enjoying every minute of it. 

You liked that he was a creature of habit; he liked the way you giggled at his Italian. Embracing spontaneity and tender, small moments of romance had sustained you both through the adjustment period -- helping Sam to transition out of his rigid scheduling, and empowering you to open your heart again. Be a little vulnerable. Let him in. 

The honeymoon phase would wane soon, you knew; a few weeks joined at the hip, enjoying all the novelty of early love, would eventually give way to normal life. But there were a few milestones to look forward to: including attendance at the school’s winter concert, where Sam’s students would be performing a medley of holiday songs from around the world. 

A medley he was humming as he came back into the bedroom. Shirtless, glasses perched on his nose, bearing two cups of coffee and a grin you’d dearly love to kiss. 

So you did. 

Pulling him down against you, laughing; Sam managed to set the mugs on the nightstand before tumbling further. Dizzy kisses to your cheeks, your throat; peppered to the curve of his throat. 

He smelled of Irish Spring; the notes hit you with a sharp kind of softness; a delicious appreciation sent your toes curling. Sam kissed with the same precision and determination he applied to everything in his life: work, yoga, Italian, and organization (you’d never seen him so happy as the night he happily set to work tidying your cupboard and implementing a system for your cutlery). 

Two minutes had you itching to unpeel your pajama top, sweat gleaming on his skin and yours. Gently, you slid off his glasses, reaching to put them on the nightstand; his mouth traced the lines of your jaw, fingers tugging at your shirt. 

In these moments, the world winnowed down to hold only you, and Sam. The two of you together. Clutched in a rosy winter morning, tangled in warm sheets and silence, the only sounds disrupting it being the soft and sweet slide of his lips against yours, and that funny little noise he made when you tickled at his chest, and then -- 

A rap at the door. 

Above you, Sam froze. “Are you...expecting anyone?” he asked quietly, leaning back, slamming his glasses back on. He fumbled for a shirt on the floor as though whoever was at the front door was about to step into the bedroom. 

“At ten o’clock on a Saturday morning?” You blinked up at him. “No. But let’s go check it out. Maybe we sleep-ordered breakfast.”

“We didn’t do much sleeping, though,” he pointed out, reaching for his sweatpants, too. 

An affectionate roll of your eyes; you didn’t bother taking a look in the mirror, though you were fairly sure you had been cuddled into a state of disarray. Sam could answer the door. 

Instinctively, he slid in front of you, peering through the peephole with a furrowed brow and a nervous glance back at you. “Um, okay,” he said, under his breath, shooting a hand back to grasp yours. 

The door swung open; the past smiled in. 

* * *

Helen didn’t mind your pajamas, and seemed content to simply fall upon you in a desperate kind of hug, chasing apologies with explanations, and almost feverish pleasantries exchanged with Sam, who ended up making her a plate of scrambled eggs and some peanut butter toast. 

“When I got your letter, I just...I didn’t know what to say at first,” she said, in a flurry of nervous hand gestures and sweet perfume. “So I called Steve.” 

“You called Steve?” Sam repeated incredulously. 

She nodded, squeezing your hand. “I just...we both knew that the way things ended on Thanksgiving, it was awful, and we knew we were missing some vital information, but neither of us stopped to realize that it was _you_.” 

Tears crowded your throat; you were grateful when Sam finished the food and came to sit down next to on the couch, stretching a protective arm around your shoulders. “God,” she continued, “I just...we both cried on the phone, honey. Realizing what we’d put you through, put each other through. How, if either of us had just had a simple conversation, so much could’ve been fixed.” 

Sam snorted. “You’re telling me.” 

“Hey,” you hushed. “It’s okay, Lennie.” 

“No.” She pulled your free hand into her lap. “No, it wasn’t. What Steve and I did, it was irresponsible. He wasn’t emotionally ready for the deep dive we took; I didn’t have the headspace for an emotional connection like that. We weren’t ready. And we looked to you to patch up our rough moments, and that _wasn’t fair_.” 

Absolution tasted like the first sip of coffee -- a little bitter, but it went down smooth, and warmed you from within. Sam deftly took the mug back, and kissed your cheek. “She’s a good friend,” he said, looking at Helen pointedly. 

“She is,” Helen agreed softly. “Steve and I were both lucky, and didn’t even realize. I’m here to make up for that now.” 

You tugged her closer into a firm embrace, willing the years apart to slip by, to disappear, to fade to nothing. All the better memories could fill the space between. “So,” you said, wiping away a few tears, as Sam raced to the kitchen for some tissues, “are you going to see Steve while you’re here?” 

Helen mustered a sad, wobbly smile. “No,” she sighed. “We said what we needed to say over the phone. We closed that chapter, and hopefully now we can both move on to something stronger and healthier for both of us. Also...I kind of started dating someone in Chicago.” 

“Oh?” you perked up at that, intrigued. 

“Yeah, he’s an MD. We met at a conference. He recently took a transfer from Norway, though he has some experience in New Mexico.” Helen smiled dreamily. “He works out...a lot. Guess I’ve got a thing for blonds.” 

Steve planned on having a conversation with you too, she went on to explain, accepting another helping of eggs from Sam, who seemed eager to help, but unsure of what precisely to do. “He wanted to give me the first shot,” she laughed. “It was kind of nice, actually, talking to him like this. Putting these things to rest. Moving on. But don’t worry, he’s got a lot of grovelling to do, too.” 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you admitted. “And that...we’re talking. And…” 

Her eyes glazed over, and she stole another hug. “I’m going to make this up to you,” Helen said. “Manicures, pedicures, we’re going to have FaceTime dates, and you and Sam are more than welcome to come visit any time. I’ll get you guys some real pizza.” 

“Hey.” Sam’s gaze hardened. “Look, I’m all for happy reunions, but that kind of talk is a bit much.” 

Laughter filled the apartment; something it hadn’t heard for too long, but now had in happy abundance. Sam and Helen together in one room was a joy you hadn’t hoped to experience, but it also tasted of inevitability. Of meant-to-be. This was always how it was supposed to be, you thought, cuddling up against Sam’s chest as Helen prattled merrily on about her townhouse, her practice, her favourite restaurants, and this Norwegian bodybuilder-turned-doctor. 

You leaned back, looked up at him; the strong curve of his jaw, the lovely bend of his smile. Eyes bright and laughing behind his glasses; fingers woven with yours. This was fast, you realized. This was so fast. A fire uncontrolled. A blaze that could burn you both. And it was a risk. You’d seen firsthand the consuming force of that kind of heat gone unchecked. 

But then he looked down at you, too, carving a private moment mid-conversation. Sam’s eyes softened further, dipping down to kiss your forehead, and you savoured it: his embrace of the unexpected; your trust in this vulnerability. There would be a safe place to land, you knew, no matter how high the flames, no matter how quick the burn. 

There would always be a safe place. 

And you snuggled further into that safe place; his arms tightening around you, and listened as your best and dearest friend tried to argue the merits of Chicago deep-dish pizza, and your sweet and truest love protested in the name of New York style. 

At ten-thirty in the morning on a Saturday; your one day off.

No place you’d rather be. 


End file.
